e very
beautifully to that purpose last Sunday in the morning service. A little
too much through his nose, perhaps; but the poor young man's nose is a
great organ, and we will not cast it in his teeth more than nature has
done. I said so to my diplomatist, who was amused. If you are sparklingly
vulgar with the English, you are aristocratic. Oh! what principle we
women require in the thorny walk of life. I can show you a letter when we
meet that will astonish humdrum. Not so diplomatic as the writer thought!
Mrs. Melville (sweet woman!) must continue to practise civility; for a
woman who is a wife, my dear, in verity she lives in a glass house, and
let her fling no stones. "Let him who is without sin." How beautiful that
Christian sentiment! I hope I shall be pardoned, but it always seems to
me that what we have to endure is infinitely worse than any other
suffering, for you find no comfort for the children of T----s in
Scripture, nor any defence of their dreadful position. Robbers, thieves,
Magdalens! but, no! the unfortunate offspring of that class are not even
mentioned: at least, in my most diligent perusal of the Scriptures, I
never lighted upon any remote allusion; and we know the Jews did wear
clothing. Outcasts, verily! And Evan could go, and write--but I have no
patience with him. He is the blind tool of his mother, and anybody's
puppet.'

The letter concludes, with horrid emphasis:

'The Madre in Beckley! Has sent for Evan from a low public-house! I have
intercepted the messenger. Evan closeted with Sir Franks. Andrew's
horrible old brother with Lady Jocelyn. The whole house, from garret to
kitchen, full of whispers!'

A prayer to Providence closes the communication.

CHAPTER XXVIII

TOM COGGLESEY'S PROPOSITION

The appearance of a curricle and a donkey-cart within the gates of
Beckley Court, produced a sensation among the men of the lower halls, and
a couple of them rushed out, with the left calf considerably in advance,
to defend the house from violation. Toward the curricle they directed
what should have been a bow, but was a nod. Their joint attention was
then given to the donkey-cart, in which old Tom Cogglesby sat alone,
bunchy in figure, bunched in face, his shrewd grey eyes twinkling under
the bush of his eyebrows.

'Oy, sir--you! my man!' exclaimed the tallest of the pair, resolutely.
'This won't do. Don't you know driving this sort of conveyance slap along
the gravel 'ere, up to the pil